The Breaking Point
by Sillycritter
Summary: In Pseudorick's story "Broken", Rick is facing a major loss. This is how that loss came to be. Be ready for some graphic content. Consider this a Prequel to "Broken". WARNING: Major Character Death. (You have been warned.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N#:** This is the Prequel to the Fanfic "Broken" by Pseudoricked...So, please make sure to read that wonderfully written and powerful Fic first! You can find it here: s/12404277/1/Broken

 **A/N #2:** There will be a 2nd and a 3rd part to this (the 3rd part is the Epilogue.) Thanks for the inspiration, Pseudoricked! This is not going to be pretty. You may need tissues. Read on (if you dare).

* * *

Later on, Rick couldn't recall what had sent the Rickmobile spiraling out of control….perhaps it had been the slightest nudge of an asteroid which sent them hurtling into space, much like a whirling dirvish or the Tazmanian Devil on speed, as Rick tried everything and anything he could possibly think of to try and regain control of the steering wheel, but alas, to no avail.

Beside him, Morty was completely freaking out, more so than Rick had ever seen him panic before-and it was making it hard not to panic himself, because at this point, he wasn't sure what was going to happen….and Rick was the kind of person who had to know what was going to happen.

"Just- for Chrissakes, will you just fucking se-settle the fuck down and shut the fuck UP, Morty!" He didn't care how harsh he sounded, as all the while he was more concerned with struggling to maintain focus on the controls in front of him, searching desperately for the ejector seat button that he'd inserted in case of an emergency such as this one. "You-I can't freaking _think_ with your stupid ass crybaby crap, you, you're gonna get us both killed!"

"Oh God we're gonna die we're gonna die we're gonna-"

"I _said_ SHUT the fuck UP, MORTY!" Rick shouted as he snatched the lapel of his grandson's t-shirt, viciously shaking him so as to bring him back to his senses-but Morty only looked more paranoid and fearful than before, and doubly traumatized by the action of Rick shaking him in such a fury.

" _Oooooooooh_!" Morty cried out with agony and horror, immediately shielding his face with his arms, and Rick's attention snapped towards the front window, just in time to see what Morty was seeing: a large planet looming suddenly within their vision.

" _Ooooh_ , fuck…." It was all Rick could manage to say before bracing himself for the inevitable impact.

It would be the last thing he'd remember.

* * *

The first thing to tickle his consciousness was the undeniable scent of blood.

It was in his nose, and in his mouth; he felt a moistness on his skin.

He looked down, and there was Morty.

Morty's eyes were closed, and he was covered with blood.

Rick blinked. "M...Morty?"

Morty didn't respond.

He also wasn't moving.

His grandson's face was smeared with blood and the sight of it made Rick's mind reel; where was the blood coming from? He managed to lift his arm a little; it felt like dead weight as he moved his hand towards Morty's face, towards where the source of the blood seemed to be….It took carefully brushing aside a few strands of Morty's hair to reveal a large gaping wound out of which fresh bright red blood was still flowing freely. It seemed as though it were a few inches thick, Rick noted; deep enough to possibly even penetrate bone. He had seen wounds that were far, far worse in the war….so why was he feeling so nauseated by the sight of it?

 _Get fucking ahold of yourself Sanchez. This is a simple head wound, you have treated amputees before without so much a blink of an eye._

For some reason, he couldn't stop staring at the wound and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. _Fucking stop it!_ He yelled at himself silently. Looking around wildly he located his emergency flask still sitting in the back pocket of the driver's seat; he snatched it up and drank what little was left from it heavily without stopping to breath. _First aid kit….where in the hell is the stupid fucking first aid kit?_ He rummaged about blindly in the back of the vehicle, searching desperately for the unmistakable white box. At long last he found it, and immediately went about tending to his grandson's wounds, wrapping his head heavily with gauze and applying anesthetic to any other open cuts he found (of which were many).

Throughout the ordeal, Morty did not stir.

"C'mon there Morty." Rick was beginning to get impatient. "C'mon, stop being a nuisance and snap the fuck out of it, Morty." Once done he gently shook his grandson's shoulder. "Lemme...lemme get you some water, okay?" Once again he went rummaging in the back of the vehicle, forgetting all the while about his own wounds, and the fact that his own face and arm was bleeding, and that he couldn't feel some of his toes. He was also pretty sure he probably had a conscussion, but that could be taken care of later. First he had to figure out what to do to help Morty.

He tilted the kid's head back gently as possible, and slowly lifted the water to the rim of Morty's lips. "You, you gotta drink this stuff. It's, it's gonna help you get your strength back Morty." He waited for any sign of swallowing from Morty, watching his throat for any signal of a response; however, he saw nothing; his grasdson remained just as still and as silent as before, and an uneasiness was beginning to settle deep in the pit of Rick's stomach.

He didn't care that he was barely able to focus on anything around him, and that his ship was probably broken beyond repair, and perhaps they would be stuck there forever, unless he could figure out a way to fix the machine (and he would find a way, he was Rick fucking Sanchez)….nor did he care that his head was pounding, slowly killing him. All he cared about, in that moment, was getting some kind of response, any kind of response, from his grandson. "M-Morty?" Once again, he leaned in close towards Morty's face, and gave him a little gentle nudge with his hand.

It was then that he noticed something unusual: Morty's chest was still; he could feel no puff of air from Morty's mouth, and a newfound sense of dread, as well as a rising feeling of uncertainty and something that closely resembled terror was beginning to take hold. "Okay Morty...I'm, I'm not gonna hurt you, I, I'm just gonna, gonna feel your pulse for a sec, OK?" Rick placed two of his fingers gently against the nape of Morty's neck. He'd done this a hundred times during the Revolution against the Federation, and most of the time, the skin he'd touched was already cold.

Morty's was warm, but rigid and still….awfully still. There was no signature flutter, and Rick quickly moved the same fingers to Morty's wrist, not caring that it too was covered in his blood. (Was it his blood? Or was it Rick's own blood? He'd never know.) Here too was still, and the feeling in Rick's stomach began to drop very quickly, and he could feel his own pulse beginning to quicken, and a roar like the wind was beginning to pick up in the space between his ears.

 _No-oh please no-he can't be-this can't be-how can this_ **BE** _!?_ In spite of his growing nausea and dizziness Rick lunged for his grandson's other wrist, placing his fingers directly on where the pulse should have been as best he could, but his fingers were still shaking, he was hyperventilating like an idiot and he could barely get them to stay still; even when he did, it was for nought; he could see that Morty's lips were beginning to turn blue.

"Dammit-oh fucking dammit-NO-SHIT MORTY-Just-just FUCKING **_NO_**!" He couldn't stop the shout that seemed to rise from the depths of his soul, as he took each of Morty's shoulders by the hands and began violently shaking him. "Wake UP dammit! Wake the fuck UP you fucking MORON! Don't you fucking dare DO this to me!" He spat blood as he screamed in his grandson's face but he didn't care; he kept shaking him and shouting. "You are so goddamn STUPID! You fucking STUPID FUCKING MORON-" He halted as he struggled to resist the urge to slap him in the face, instead continued to shake him as though he were a rag doll; Morty did not respond, and Rick knew then that Morty would not respond then, now or ever again….because he was gone….he'd already been gone, and the entire time Rick had been tending to a corpse. "Don't you DARE fucking do it M-m-MORTY!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring how much of a lunatic he sounded; who would hear him?

Bringing Morty up to a sitting position, Rick brought the boy in close and rocked him. He could feel the blood on Morty's face mixing with his own, blood that was slowly turning cold, and he drew the boy in closer. Feeling his grandson's own blood on his skin, something irrepairable broke suddenly inside of Rick; burying his head deep into the soft fabric Morty's shirt, he began to sob out loud, he couldn't stop it; he held his grandson close and cried like a baby.

* * *

Rick had seen a lot of things that would bring most to their knees. He had watched close friends die tragic death. He had witnessed atrocities that could have the potential to drive anyone mad. This was no exception. For a very long time he sat next to the body and watched the sun set. That night it got cold, and he huddled next to his grandson as he nursed what little of his emergency stash he could find. He spoke to his grandson about everything and nothing; it didn't matter what he said, because he wouldn't remember a word of it in the morning.

When the sun rose, Rick located his toolkit and went about the business of burying his grandson's body. It was a motion he had gone through many times, and did not take much thought; he did so swiftly and without fail. There would be no marker on Morty's grave; he would remember where he'd said goodbye, and that was all that Rick needed to know.

The ship did not take long to fix. By midday Rick had climbed back into the pilot's seat. His head was pounding and his vision swam but somehow he managed to get the ship back into the atmosphere, and fly away….without looking back.

It wasn't until he enetered another galaxy's realm that Rick realized his dreadful mistake: he'd buried his grandson without his family's permission. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. He didn't care what Jerry had to say but he knew his daughter was going to raise holy hell, and he would be lucky if he didn't get kicked out of the house, banished, and he couldn't say he would blame her at all if she did so.

After all, she had every reason to hate him.

Her son was dead because of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** This is the Second part in a Four Part installment Prequel Series plus Epilogue to Pseudorick's "Broken". I would say "Enjoy" but I don't think that's the write word to use.

* * *

He couldn't go home.

It was too soon.

If Rick went home, he'd have to tell everyone what happened, and then it wouldn't just be Jerry that would hate him (not that he cared, Jerry could hate him forever) but then Beth and Summer would too. He could tell himself it didn't matter, that whether Beth loved or hated him didn't make a difference-but it did, and the thought of her knowing he was responsible for Morty's death was more than he could bare.

Besides, they weren't supposed to be back yet; it was still just Friday night, and they had been on their way to a weekend resort. They were supposed to celebrate Morty's winning third place in the Science fair-something that had shocked everyone, Rick included-because Morty usually had trouble in school. Nobody had expected him to even enter the contest, let alone win third prize-but he had done it, and all on his own; he'd made a holographic universe using things he'd found in the garage. Normally Rick would have been pissed, but the creation was so well put together that he'd been not just amused, but impressed (and it took a heck of a lot to impress him).

He'd already paid for their rooms, so Rick went to the resort, alone. He went straight to the resort's finest bar and got himself very, very drunk. Whereas time had slowed down to a near standstill before, now it sped up with a crazy cocktail of drugs and booze and fuckathons, and Rick almost forgot entirely that in a day or so it would all be over, and he'd have to wake up back into a living nightmare. Even as skin meshed with skin he'd see flashes of yellow and red dancing on the periphery of his vision, and he felt more naked than he'd ever been; yet, the women never suspected he was desperately trying his best not to crack. The drinks kept coming, and at one point or more he'd passed out from a mixture of cocktail and overexursion, and soon the women stopped coming and left him to his lonesome.

And alone he really was, as he lay cold and naked in a large bed with sheets strewn wildly about him, biting his hand to keep himself from screaming as he couldn't stop seeing Morty's face, the memory of his grandon's ice cold skin.

* * *

It was late Sunday night when Rick returned, somehow in one piece, the torn piece of Morty's bloodied yellow shirt tucked deep inside his pocket for safe keeping. That night he wrote a letter, and left it in Morty's room, barely able to read his own handwriting through the migrain that was assaulting him. He would sleep the next day away, torn out of the blissful state of ignorance that was sleep, when a hard knock jarred him roughly awake.

"DAD!" It was Beth; shit. She was obviously very worried, as well as already clearly very annoyed. She was trying not to show it, but Rick knew all the telltale signs, the tone of her voice was unmistakeable. "Dad, open up! We've got to talk."

Shit. His head was pounding and the last thing Rick wanted to do right then was "talk". Honestly, the only thing he wanted to do was find the nearest toilet and unload whatever contents his stomach may contain (which wasn't much at all, save for the all the liquor in his system). From the tone of her voice, he surmised she hadn't found the letter yet.

"Read teh letURper," he mumbled from under the covers.

"DAD-WAKE UP!" She was pounding on the door, each pound boring like a screwdriver into his skull. "NOW!" Beth was shouting, and Rick's eyes snapped open at once; having lived with Beth's mother, he was still subconsciously 'trained' to respond to such tones.

He had to practically drag himself over to the door. When he opened it there she was, glowering darkly at him. "Dad," Beth said icily, her eyes narrowed into focused slits of suspicion, "where is Morty?"

"Hi ur sweety, how was your URP day?" Rick quickly sidestepped his daughter and made a beeline for the kitchen (he'd need to get loaded for this altercation).

"Dad…" Beth was following suite almost on his heels; they practically walked into each other as Rick swung open the door and snatched his favorite beer, instantly chugging from it, "you are clearly drunk as a skunk and my son is not home. Please tell me for Chrissakes: where on Earth is Morty?"

For some reason Rick couldn't help but immediately double over laughing, hiccupping and gasping with amusement as Beth stared back at him stonily, with astonishment.

"What's so funny Dad?" Beth now crossed her arms with an even deeper glare, but now more concern was beginning to filter in.

"He's taken a little, a little er, trip." Rick burped in response, swaying and hiccupping and trying hard not to giggle.

"A…" Beth blinked with confusion, her eyes widening, "a what?"

"Left you a let-letter. 'Ts ooover thear in his bed-ah-room. Room." Rick snorted as he took another swig of beer. "Issa good lit'l let-ter. Hs'a good wriUGHter."

"Dad….?" Beth took one look at her father, then fled immediately to the bedroom.

Rick stayed right where he was, downing the rest of the beer.

A horrible scream, followed by repeated "Oh my God"'s was heard from down the hall, which alerted the rest of the family and Jerry and Summer immediately came running.

"What the hell is going on!?" Jerry shouted angrily at Rick, who simply shrugged, removed another beer from the fridge and promptly started on the next one.

"Mommy?" came the next shout, followed by Jerry's scream of "Oh dear Lord, no, NO!"

By this time Rick was already heading for the door of the garage, but a red-faced Jerry, eyes glaring daggers even as they threatened to spill over with tears, stood between himself and freedom. "You." The word dripped thick as molasses, and tasted just as bitter; Rick took a step back as Jerry took another step forward. "You. Son. Of. A. BITCH," Jerry hissed as he took another threatening step forward, both fists clenched, his body trembling with rage. "You did this, you…" His hand was poissed and ready to strike; Rick didn't move or blink. "You monster," Jerry finally blurted out in spite of his shock, "you- you killed him!"

"Not really, Jerry." He knew even as he spoke he was asking for it. "If you really think about it, technically it was the _ship_ that ERP killed him."

"You…" Jerry's face was turning purple crimson; his fist was raising higher. "You….you….y-you-"

"That's a brilliant argument Jerry. One for the records. They'll be talking about it in the history URP books."

"You MURDERER!" Jerry swung wildly in his direction. Upon impact with his face, the world was split in half, and Rick saw stars.

"Dad-STOP!" he heard, but that was the last thing he knew before the blissful darkness enveloped him, and all was quiet once again.

* * *

The next thing he knew, the house was silent, and he was alone.

Before anyone could catch sight of him, Rick quickly grabbed hold of all the liquor in the house. He had a place where he was wanted, and it wasn't here.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

There will be two more parts to this story. Next part takes place right before Pseudorick's story "Broken". The fourth part is the epilogue. And I'm sorry sometimes writing has to hurt. It hurt writing it, so you're not alone. Cheers.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So this is what's happening from the Summer's point of view. Sorry it's so short but I have to leave it where it feels right to leave off...also, it's the only one like it, and I'm probably not going to do each one respectively. There will be two more chapters left. Next one takes place right before Pseudorick's story, and the last one takes place after (the Epilogue). Sorry for the depressing material but ah well what can you do...depressing story is depressing.

* * *

Silence had engulfed the Smith residence in Rick's absence.

The remaining members sat together in the living room. They might have been in the same place, but each of them couldn't have been further apart. Neither one was looking at the other, and each of their faces were drawn and blank, unblinking.

Beth's eyes had long since dried, her face a mess of smeared mascara; now, she sat staring out at nothing, and didn't say a word. She never smoked, but she was holding an unlit cigarette (she had managed to request one, and Jerry had immediately retrieved it from her 'hidden' stash without question). Somehow the cigarette didn't fall but every so often her fingers would shake, though each time she kept holding it in position.

Jerry's face was as blank as his wife's, but even Summer could see the conflict in his hardened, cemented vision-the constant battle that was ongoing on beneath the surface. Every now and then, a shadow would cover the grief in his eyes. He was angry, she knew, but he was also still in a steady amount of shock; she knew better than to rattle that cage; really, she was more concerned for her mother, because she had never seen her have a meltdown quite like that before.

* * *

Even as she had heard Beth mouth the words "Oh, Morty…oh my boy," and start sobbing hysterically, she hadn't realized what was happening until she somehow managed to snatch the letter out of her mother's grasp, and read the truth for herself.

The letter said quite simply in Rick's horrible, barely legible, chicken-scratch handwriting:

 _Morty is dead. And it is my fault. I crashed the ship. He didn't make it. I saved a piece of his shirt if you don't believe me, but I wouldn't lie._

 _PS: I tried to save him but there was nothing I could do. I tried._

 _PPS: I am sorry._

 _-Rick_

"Oh my God…." was all Summer could say. The piece of paper dropped from her hands and fluttered weightlessly to the ground. She stood there, staring at the piece of paper, then her eyes traveled slowly to a flash of yellow that had cought her eye.

"What the hell does it say!?" Jerry was torn between trying to comfort his wife and desperate to know the answer.

It was there, just like Rick had said. She knew what it was, but she didn't want to believe it. "No….." Tears forming in Summer's eyes, she picked up the bloodied fabric, her fingers shaking as she clutched it in her hands. "M….Morty…." Summer choked up entirely then, and sank to the floor sobbing. Her father was next to read the letter, and his sobs soon mirrored her own. The next thing she knew her father was storming out the door, and a heated battle broke out before her eyes.

"Dad!" Summer, horrified, scrambled to her feet to try to prevent her father from what he was about to do. She could see the dazed, shocked look in her grandfather's eyes, and she knew he was in no state to be able to defend himself.

"STOP!" Beth cried out, through her sobs, "DON'T!"

It was too late. Rick went down like a sack of bricks, and crumpled at Jerry's feet. Summer rushed to Rick's side, staring down at her grandfather in disbelief, then back up at her father in horror. "What's _wrong_ with you!?" she screamed at him.

" **HE'S** what _**CAUSED** _ this!" Jerry looked ready to kick Rick in the side, but Summer rushed at him.

"Dad-you don't really believe that, do you!?" Summer couldn't believe her own ears. "I mean-it clearly was an accident-"

"NO!" Jerry was shaking, his fists clenched, staring down at Rick with murder in his eyes.

"STOP!" Beth croaked one last time, "LEAVE MY FATHER ALONE!" She shoved her husband away with a force Jerry hadn't known she possesed. She crouched down beside Rick who lay on the floor, unconscious. "He's my FATHER," she hissed darkly up at Jerry. "And you've HURT him!"

Jerry looked as though he'd just been slapped in the face. "BUT-" he stammered, "but but, but he-!"

"Not _NOW_ , Jerry!" Beth spat, and then burst at once into tears, sobbing into her father's chest. "Leave me alone," she wept. "Just...leave me alone."

She had stayed there with her father until her husband and daughter had retired to separate rooms. Then, she had numbly returned to her own, knowing her father wouldn't want anyone there to debase his pride further when he awoke.

* * *

She should have stayed.

Because now, he was gone.

And there was no telling when-or if-he'd come back.


End file.
